


Fire Won't Burn In A Vacuum

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: (I'm so sorry), Angry Sex, Blood As Lube, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pure Smut, Violence, but whoops my finger slipped, everything went tits up and a mutiny happened, fucking on the battlefield, now it's posted, oh noooo, porn without much plot, something written ages ago that probably should've stayed in the private folder, why give a guy 1 dick when he can have 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 22:45:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13844598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Fire is a fickle thing. It won't burn in a vacuum, but it will on a ship, and the blazes that stud the smoke-soused hangar must be dealt with before they consume every soul on board.





	Fire Won't Burn In A Vacuum

**Author's Note:**

> **Yet another prompt fill - for Kraglin/Yondu battlefield sex. Enjoy!**

Fire is a fickle thing. It won't burn in a vacuum, but it will on a ship, and the blazes that stud the smoke-soused hangar must be dealt with before they consume every soul on board.

There are few souls left for Kraglin to concern himself with. Only two, to his knowledge – and those are the captain's and his own. They’re tarnished enough that a little charring will hardly make a difference.

Hot. It's so hot - that dry-hot, eyeball-crackling, hair-crisping hot; the roll of torrid air from a furnace that blasts your sweat to salt.

Yondu stands, half-turned away. He's still as the crypt around them, the only movement the swell and recede of his breath. His broad back is blood-spattered, but ain’t none of it blue.

He looks at Kraglin over the prow of a shoulder plate. His stare is hooded, deep-set, better suited to a feral thing. A bilgesnipe, a hyena, a hoarbeast rampaging on a frozen fastness, far away from here.

Kraglin's airways constrict and his dual-groincups strain, where they keep his bifurcated cock trapped behind twin plastic domes. A voice in the back of his mind whispers _run._

Flames gorge on spilt fuel. Yondu whistled through an M-ship mid take-off, rupturing the tanks, and petroleum threads Kraglin's brain with fumes, makes his vision run washy as the heat-haze. Prey-instinct batters him, demands that he turn tail and flee, sprint from this hell-scape and the presiding demon king.

But there ain't no escape. Behind Kraglin yawns a blue-black canvas, splattered with a misting of stars. In front of him, there's only death. Death and flame and cap'n.

Fire clashes with blue flesh and slides off red leathers. As Yondu prowls towards Kraglin, the light fluctuates and shivers, flashing intermittently from the metal in his grin.

Kraglin's the last man standing. Around them fan Ravagers, blood-of-their-brothers. Traitors to the cause. They caught wind of their captain's bounty with the Kree and had themselves a little soiree.

Coups ain't uncommon among space pirates. But Ravagers have Code – even banished ones. These men broke it. They deserved everything they got.

As for Kraglin, who stood by his captain's side when the hangar turret guns turned on them, when the air shimmered thick and gelatinous with plasma shot, and his ears rung with whistles and screams? He deserves his captain. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Kraglin still flinches when Yondu steps up to him, boots crunching over severed limbs.

Blood stains his cheek, his chin, trickles down his chest. It ain't his, just like all the rest.

The drops are wet, molten carnellian. The dry patches crinkle, darkened to russet, coating the flaky leather of his coat. Kraglin doesn't get the chance to lick his thumb and swipe the fleck on Yondu's underlip – as soon as he raises his hand, Yondu drops, drops like he's taken a bolt to the back.

His head bows, the arrow clattering besides him.

Kraglin's palm falls naturally to rest on his implant. He feels the steady pulse there, the yaka that throbs in sync with Yondu's heart.

He knows what cap'n wants. What he _needs._ Kraglin, dutiful first that he is, will give it to him, and more besides.

He cradles the back of Yondu's skull, where the scar skulks out from under the implant and burrows beneath his collar. He pulls his face flush with his zipper, so the bulges squash his captain's nose.

“First you suck me,” he croaks. Ash stings his eyes, more clagging his throat, each word a battle of its own. “Then you roll over, right here on yer dead. And you take my cocks until you cum.”

Yondu inhales. He drags the stench of sweat and smoky leather to the back of his throat like he's snorting a line of huffer off a fuckbuddy's treasure trail. Having provided that trail, Kraglin can't help but grin. It's a sharp and fangy thing, as rotten and blood-daubed as they are.

“Here." He angles Yondu until his chipped teeth catch on the zipper. “No hands.”

Yondu smoulders up at him. He tugs down the fly and noses at the groin cups until they plop loose.

Kraglin has to help him dislodge his underwear. Fitting both dicks through the pissing slit makes for a tight squeeze. While he wants to save his load – wants to sketch two musky contrails over Yondu's blue sky, crisscrossing and intersecting in a sour white helix – cock rings are far more fun when they're on his captain.

“Suck,” he reminds him. His dicks bob bare, glistening in the firelight. They're wet: pre-cum and sweat, the grime of a long hard fight.

Kraglin catches Yondu's jaw before he can see the order through.

“No teeth neither.”

Yondu wordlessly folds down his lips. He can't swallow both – can in other holes, but two dicks in one mouth tempts lockjaw. The limits of this are always set by what Yondu can take, what his body can handle while still bouncing upright next morning.

Today however, they've slaughtered the disloyal majority of their crew. The rest are scattered to the solar winds. It's a big fucking problem, and Kraglin will later berate himself for trying to jizz it all away.

But tomorrow ain't today. Tomorrow ain't now, with the oily smoke blackening their lungs and the heat boiling sweat off their skin, and the fire skulking closer to the engine fuel, gobbling corpse after corpse.

Yondu starts at the tip of the top dick, sliding halfway to the root with his eyes on Kraglin. The air itself is ablaze, so hot that Yondu's mouth is a relief, a cool benediction. Soft and pliant and sopping for him, deadly whistle smothered by cock.

His nose buries in matted pubic hair, throat distended in a cock-shaped bulge. He doesn't stop looking at Kraglin as he swallows.

Fuck.

Dried sweat scratches Kraglin's armpits. Crystals cling frost-bright in the tangle of his beard. He's afloat on it, swimming in it, drowning in it, sucked in by the undertow of fuel fumes and blood, and if Yondu's pointy little tongue strokes one more time along the vein... 

Hell, Kraglin's done for. Yondu'll be the death of him.

He's known it since he first saw him, since he ducked for a kiss and staggered away with bitten lips and a deficit of pride. If they don't die together, side-by-side in the inferno, this is how Kraglin wants to go: his captain drinking him down, wiping his mouth, pursing to whistle, one little death after another.

But for now, there ain't nothing but the burn around them, the nails curled against Kraglin's hipbones, the blissful cool well of a throat.

His other cock pats Yondu's cheek, grating stubble. That zings, bites like the fire has caught up with them, searing at perfect counterpoint to his mouth and its silky-slick sheathe. Kraglin feels it build, feels the simmer in his abdomen as he snorts soot-coarse breaths and whines loud enough to be heard over the roaring flames.

No.

Not yet. 

Kraglin ain't doing this for himself, after all. 

He fucks in, relishing the surprised clasp, the quiet retch, the contractions as Yondu scrunches his eyes closed and concentrates on swallowing. The hands slide off his hips, land on Yondu's lap. They curl like dead Orloni, face-up, dried blood locking them in claws. They twitch when Kraglin pulls free.  

“Hope ya brought lube," he gasps. Combs a trembling hand through his smoke-greased hair. "Not even yer greedy ass can take both of me with spit.”

Luckily, Yondu’s greedy ass doesn't have to. Lashings of blood coat the ground, bubbling soapy-red in the heat. Besides, the pair of them do this often enough that his hole feels putty-soft when Kraglin fits it around his fingers, slicking him up with whatever's to hand.

“I’ll get ya some venereal vacs after,” he says, as he slurps the foul gunk from under his nails.

The reservoirs flow from every registered species in this Quadrant, and a few more besides. Their blood tastes of old unit chits and degrading batteries, and must sting something rotten on the inside.

But like this, in this headspace, cap'n is a slut for the pain. It only carries him higher – and harder, Kraglin discovers, dipping between his thighs to weigh and squeeze.

He unzips his captain front and back, not undoing a single belt, and flips up his coat for the thrill of fucking him in near-full regalia. Yondu's dick scrapes the leathers of the corpse he grabbed, using it as a pillow to prop up his hips. Kraglin tucks a hand beneath him, feeling how plates contract and flare, how wetness dribbles between.

“Show me where ya want it,” he breathes. He purrs hard enough to dislodge smoke from his chest when Yondu arches up, pucker puffy from the fingering and dark with foreign blood. “Yeah, thassit. Now…”

He rests the first of his cockheads against him, nudging enough to part. Then, once Yondu is a wiggling, gasping mess, he adds the second besides it.

Yondu’s knuckles clench white. He grips the corpse, using it as a handhold, clutching the strap of the dead man's gunbelt.

Kraglin pushes one cock in – only an inch, waiting for Yondu's panicky breaths to slow. The slow, wet squelch is lost to the crackling flames.

A conduit of bodies link the oil-puddles back to the dripping fuel tank. Once they catch light, the fuse will be short-lived, and anyone remaining in this hell-pit shorter.

Kraglin doesn't watch. Let it all fucking burn.

He feeds both dicks deeper, deeper into fluttering blue. He opens his cap'n on his blood-slicked cocks, clutching Yondu's hips, a bruise under each hand. He grounds him there, keeps him pinned in the moment. Reminds him of who and what they are.

A captain and a first mate, fucking on their piled dead. It's sick, it's filthy. It was _Ravager,_ and Kraglin knows the moment Yondu is ready to take the second properly; knows it from the sag of his torso and the whimper and the toss of his head, implant a prism through which the fires split brilliant red.

“Fuckin' gorgeous,” he hisses in Yondu's ear. Is he talking about the blaze, or the man, or both? Maybe they're all connected. Maybe they're one and the same: the fire a living, writhing thing they birthed.

Kraglin grips Yondu's chin, drool slithering from a slack blue mouth. His groin crushes on blue, all of him buried. He holds Yondu and Yondu clutches tight around him as they rock together in the ruins of their world.

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Comments/kudos are welcomed! Even if it's just you screaming at the general grossness of using dead people's blood as lube. WTF, Kraglin???**


End file.
